


The Moon Still Rises

by lilbluednacer



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant, F/M, Hotel Sex, Mentions of Violence, New York City, Post-Canon, in which I make vague attempts to rectify 6b, these kids deserve a goddamn vacation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-05
Updated: 2017-10-05
Packaged: 2019-01-09 13:10:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12277137
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilbluednacer/pseuds/lilbluednacer
Summary: She lives for these stolen moments - the two of them in the dark, skin to skin, their bodies saying all the things they don't have words for.





	The Moon Still Rises

**Author's Note:**

> This may end up becoming a series in the future because even though TW is over my brain clearly hasn't gotten the memo.

The flight from London lands at JFK International a little after eleven at night.

Lydia stares out the plane window, watching the twinkling lights of New York City get closer and closer until they blur into the tracks of lights that illuminate the runway.

The passenger sitting next to her in their first class row begins to stir as the interior lights come on. He's Japanese, middle aged, wearing an expensive looking cashmere sweater and a gold wristwatch. Lydia chatted with him for a few minutes while they were boarding at Heathrow; he works for Morgan-Stanley, the Tokyo branch, and reminds Lydia painfully of Mr. Yukimura.

She stands up from her seat and goes into the aisle to retrieve her travel suitcase from the overhead compartment, slinging her leather tote bag over her arm. Out of the corner of her eye she can see the male flight attendant watching her. She straightens her spine, tries to extend her senses but she doesn't feel anything suspicious, and when she walks by him all he does is cheerily welcome her to New York.

She follows the other passengers off the plane and into the airport, walks down the concourse and gets into line at customs, passport clutched in her hands. Security always makes her nervous these days but there aren't any problems, the agent behind the desk stamps her passport, says _welcome to New York_ in the bored tone of voice of someone who's been working all night, and waves Lydia through.

She takes the escalator down to street level and walks out the sliding glass doors, pulling her suitcase behind her. She gets in line for a cab, quickly texts Scott to inform him that she's back in the country and slides into the backseat of an empty cab when she's reached the front of the line.

"I'm going to Midtown," she announces. "The Michelangelo Hotel. West 51st street between sixth and seventh."

The driver nods and flicks on his turn signal, pulling the cab away from the curb to get onto the highway. Lydia slumps back against the seat, exhausted. She couldn't fall asleep on the plane and she's on London time, she's just gotten back from spending five days with her ex-boyfriend and his _current_ one, and she hasn't seen her boyfriend or had a decent orgasm in over three weeks.

She bends down and pulls off her heels - they're impractical but she always wears them when she flies, she likes to think they make her look older and more professional - the kind of young woman she could've been, once. Someone who spends her school breaks shopping in Paris or getting wasted for a week straight in Cancun instead busting her ass all around the Western Hemisphere saving supernatural creatures in her spare time.

She stares blankly at the tv screen attached to the back of the passenger seat, watching a very blond journalist with blinding white teeth inform her that while she's been in London there was a shooting in a San Antonio mall that's being labeled a domestic terrorist attack, a train crash in Montreal that killed twelve people, and a former Disney child star went to rehab after assaulting his girlfriend in the middle of a nightclub.

Lydia reaches out and taps the screen, silencing the television. She stares out the window as they drive into Manhattan, watching street signs and florescent lit billboards blur by. When they get to the hotel the cab driver wordlessly accepts her wad of cash and Lydia sticks her feet back into her heels and slides out of the taxi. There's a doorman outside the hotel in a sharp black suit who smiles kindly at her and opens the door.

Lydia nods her head demurely in thanks and walks into the lobby, her heels clicking on the marble tile as she approaches the front desk. The girl working the night shift informs her that her party has already checked in and slides a keycard across the shining wooden surface of the desk. Lydia snatches it up and drags her suitcase over to the elevator, stabs aggressively at the _up_ button, sighing in relief when the doors open with a ding.

It's after midnight now, she's the only one in the elevator. She watches the buttons light up until she reaches the eleventh floor and walks into the hallway, follows the small bronze plaque on the wall directing her down the hall to her right towards the room number written on the paper slip the key card is wrapped in. When she finds the room she sticks the key in the slot in the door; the light flashes green and Lydia yanks on the handle, pulling herself and her bags into the hotel room.

She stands there in total darkness, reaching blindly behind herself to makes sure the door is locked. "Stiles?" she whispers.

No answer. Lydia places her tote bag down on the plush carpet floor next to her suitcase, toes off her heels and tiptoes across the room, turning on the flashlight app on her phone. The room is a suite, there's an overstuffed couch over by a cabinet containing a large tv, an armchair in one corner, a wet bar, and across the room is a king sized bed, a young man sprawled across it face down into the pillows. 

Lydia gets one knee up on the bed and threads her fingers through his hair. "Stiles."

He mumbles something and rolls over, asleep, his bare back exposed to her. All the lights in the room are off, the curtains over the window drawn so he's illuminated only by the faint blue light coming from her phone, his pale skin eerie against the dark burgundy duvet. Lydia smiles fondly, taking a moment to just observe - the broad spread of his shoulders, the long line of his vulnerable spine, the dark waistband of his boxer briefs, the only piece of clothing he's wearing.

She walks back over towards the door, unbuttoning her pale pink trench coat and flinging it over the back of the armchair. She scoops up her tote bag and takes it into the bathroom, closing the door before turning on the light. She blinks at the sudden brightness, bringing her palms up to cover her eyes for a moment as they adjust. In the mirror her face looks pale, shadows under her eyes, her curls starting to fall limply around her shoulders.

She digs around in her tote for her cosmetics bag and ziplock full of toiletries, laying everything out on the black veined marble sink counter. Lydia unzips her black jersey dress and hangs it over the back of the bathroom door, unhooks her bra and bends down to peel off her thong. She stretches out in front of the mirror, staring at her naked body idly for a minute before opening up a packet of face wipes. She takes her makeup off and gets into the shower, sighing in delight as the water gets hot. Five days spent running around the English countryside in four inch heels was hell on her hamstrings.

She relishes the shower, soaping up with liquid body wash, overtired and worked up at the same time, remembering Stiles sleeping in the next room. She uses the hotel brand shampoo and conditioner on her hair, shaves her legs for the first time in a week and steps out, dripping all over the thick bathmat. Lydia wraps herself in a plush white hotel towel, wrings out her wet hair over the sink and flicks off the light as she steps out of the bathroom.

She tiptoes to the foot of the bed and crawls up the side Stiles isn't completely occupying. She flings the towel over the edge of the bed and crawls naked under the sheets, burrows under Stiles' right arm, and falls asleep.

*

She wakes up to the sensations of a tongue licking the inside of her left thigh. "Hey," she croaks, her voice dry and cracking.

Stiles has kicked the duvet cover down to the foot of the bed and is sprawled out on his belly, his cheek pillowed by her thigh. "What time did you get here?"

She yawns, turning her face sleepily into the pillow. "Around midnight."

"Mm." He turns his head to the side and _sucks_. "You could've woken me up."

She inhales sharply, the muscles in her thighs going soft as his tongue glides over her skin. "I - _tried_."

He removes his mouth and Lydia has to look down, to see him between her white thighs, his eyes glinting in the light coming in under the curtain. A shiver runs down her spine. She's half-awake, body warm and heavy, Stiles's thumbs pushing down on her thighs to roll them outwards so she's open and exposed to him.

"Hey," she says again, heavier this time.

Stiles strokes his thumbs against the little hollows right at the tops of the inside of her thighs and her head tilts back against the pillow, staring up at the ceiling.

"What're you doing?" she murmurs.

"Well, I woke up and there was this smoking hot strawberry blond naked in my bed. I felt the need to investigate."

She curls one leg around his lower back, impatiently tilting her hips at him. "Well, what are you waiting for?"

He smirks, just for a second, but then he leans forward and closes his mouth over her. She exhales harshly, reaching down to grip something - the sheets, his shoulders, anything to brace herself against the onslaught of his tongue. It's easy to let go here, locked away in a hotel room charged to a credit card that gets paid off monthly with money from the Hale family, from an account Lydia has designated for pack travel funds (because saving supernatural creatures all over the globe is _expensive_ ), two anonymous people in a city full of anonymous people.

Energy like liquid heat coils at the base of her spine, undulating through her hips as she arches her back and cries out, burying her fingers in his hair. He works her down slowly and then uses his fingers to build her right back up until Lydia is reaching down desperately to tug him up by his shoulders.

"Fuck, I missed you," he blurts out, crawling up her body, one hand still between her legs. "Do you still have"-

"Yeah, yeah, it's good for three more years," she gasps out breathlessly.

Stiles flips over onto his back, taking her with him, her legs straddling his hips. "I fucking love modern medicine."

Lydia rolls her hips, grinding against him. He's ditched the boxer briefs and he's naked and hard between her thighs. She watches as his eyes get dark and hooded, his hands coming up to curl around her hips, thumbs stroking her lower abdomen.

She lifts up on her shins, bracing one hand against his chest and using the other to guide him into her, slowly sinking down with a quiet moan. Stiles' jaw is a sharp line, bottom lip held between his teeth, his breathing harsh and unsteady. Lydia rolls her hips experimentally, watching his eyes roll back, his hair a dark mess against the pillows.

It won't take long, not after being apart for almost a month. They don't seem to know any other speed but fast yet, desperately fucking in his single dorm room, her apartment, occasionally in the backseat of the Jeep in GWU's student parking garage, whenever and wherever they get an opportunity. She can't help but be selfish with Stiles, take and take what he gives her, enough to hold her over until the next time she sees him.

Heat licks up her spine and she shudders, leaning forward over Stiles, her body a live wire, a flame that burns just for him. She moves faster, gasping as the heat moves a little higher, her stomach contracting with it. Underneath her Stiles is shaking, his whole body taut, hands convulsively clenching around the crests of her hipbones.

She trembles, starting to pant as it really comes on: Stiles, here, underneath her, inside of her, making her fall apart. She bows over him, helpless, feeling him thrust into her as she clutches onto his shoulders, her forehead pressed against his collarbone. She lives for these stolen moments - the two of them in the dark, skin to skin, their bodies saying all the things they don't have words for.

"Stiles," she chokes out, and comes with a dry sob, shuddering against him until Stiles groans and grips her ass tightly with both hands, exposing the pale line of his throat as his head falls back.

They clean up in the bathroom, put on huge waffle knit bathrobes embroidered with the hotel logo and order room service. It comes up fifteen minutes later and they eat eggs and pancakes in bed while watching MSNBC until Lydia can't take it anymore and changes the channel.

"No more news," she announces, cradling her coffee mug. "I'm putting a moratorium on the news. It's depressing."

Stiles reaches over and squeezes the back of her neck. "Do you want to talk about"-

"No," she says sharply.

He retreats, leaning back on his side of the bed and sticking a huge bite of blueberry pancakes in his mouth, chewing with a deceptively innocent look on his face.

"I'm serious," she says, massacring her omelet with her fork, cheese oozing out from the middle. 

He swallows loudly, a drop of maple syrup smeared over his bottom lip. "I didn't say anything."

"They weren't there," she bites out. "By the time we got out there, there - there was nothing left."

"Lydia"-

"I'm fine." She accidentally scrapes the tines of her fork against her plate and winces. "Jackson and Ethan are going to Ireland for a few weeks. They think what's left of that pack might have gone there."

Stiles closes his hand gently over her wrist and gets her to drop the fork. "You didn't have to go."

She glares at him. "They came back to Beacon Hills to help us, I couldn't just say no."

He snorts. "Yeah, I remember them being _super_ helpful."

She closes her eyes and exhales. "Stiles."

"I'm just saying"-

"I know." She pushes her plate away, memories from that night flashing through her head, the fear, the panic, her premonition manifesting into reality. 

"Hey." He reaches over to her, pulling her back so she's lying down against his side. "Don't be mad."

"I'm not mad," she sighs. "I just think it's a little ridiculous that you're still jealous of my ex-boyfriend."

"I'm not _jealous_ , excuse me for not loving the idea of you traipsing around the English countryside with your first love for a week."

"We were not _traipsing_ , we were following what appeared to be a total goose chase in the fucking rain all week. Besides, Jackson's totally gay now."

Stiles squints suspiciously at her. "Is he? Because we didn't actually clarify that"-

"Stiles." She reaches out and places her hand flat against his chest. "Do you really want to spend the one full day we have together analyzing Jackson's sexuality?"

"Nope," he mumbles, reaching around to pull her robe down her shoulders. "Definitely not."

They fuck again on the bed, right there between the breakfast dishes, orange juicing spilling onto the carpet. They take a shower together after, Lydia pressing herself up against Stiles' naked chest, soaking up his body heat, using her tongue to lick drops of water off his nipples. When they get out he watches from the doorway as she blow dries her hair naked in the bathroom, his eyes glued to her ass. Lydia moisturizes while Stiles gets dressed. She applies foundation, mascara, and lipgloss, and changes into a pair of dark rinse skinny jeans, a dove grey sweater, and ankle boots.

She grabs her trench coat from where it's slung over the armchair and drapes it over her shoulders. "Ready."

Stiles holds out his arm to her and she curls her hand around his bicep. They walk out together and down the hall to the elevators, cram in next to a family with two screaming toddlers and a collapsible stroller, and go down to the lobby.

Outside the autumn sun is shining in a cloudless blue sky. Lydia turns on the sidewalk, her hand tightly held in Stiles', and starts to walk uptown in the direction of Central Park. Stiles is tense next to her, constantly looking around, cataloging potential threats. She strokes her thumb over the back of his hand, feeling his body settle a little at her touch.

They're surrounded by people on the sidewalk, forced to go with the flow of the crowd, wandering slowly up Seventh Avenue. It's easy to pretend like this, that they're a normal couple, two college students in love, in the city for a romantic weekend because it's New York and they're young and beautiful and fit right in. They cross into the park at the Artisans' Gate at Seventh Avenue, both of them exhaling in relief at the sight of all those trees. They're California kids at heart, a crowded city made of cement and steel is as unnatural to them as a life without the supernatural would be, now.

They walk hand in hand, talking about easy things as they do a loop around Sheep Meadow - Lydia's meeting with her advisor coming up on Monday, the D.C. metro system, whether the pizza place near Stiles' dorm is better than the one down the street from her Cambridge apartment. They come back out from the park by Columbus Circle, cross the street and start to walk back downtown.

They eat pizza standing up on the sidewalk for lunch under the guise of comparison and both quickly realize that New York style pizza is a gift from the gods, Stiles immediately running back inside pizzeria for two more slices.

"How come we don't have pizza like this at home?" he says indignantly. "That shit tastes like tomato flavored _cardboard_ compared to this." He takes another bite, his lips stained red with tomato sauce.

Lydia wipes grease off her hands with a napkin. "I've heard Chicago-style is even better."

"Lies!" Stiles points an accusing finger at her. "Lies and blasphemy! Nothing could be better than this."

"Alright, when you're done making love to your pizza let me know."

Stiles smirks and manages to get an entire slice into his mouth, moaning pornographically as he chews.

They spend the afternoon doing tourist-y things: they walk the High Line in Chelsea, eat candied chestnuts purchased from a street vendor, spend an hour perusing a used bookstore. There's so much to do and no time to do it, they walk back uptown instead of taking the subway so they can take more of the city in, stopping at a bakery so Stiles can get a mocha-chocolate glazed doughnut that is literally the size of his face.

Lydia buys a cup of coffee and drinks it while Stiles deconstructs his doughnut into pieces at a little table in the corner of the bakery. Jet lag is tugging at her but Stiles pulls harder, she feels the caffeine filter into her bloodstream as he takes her hand to lead her back outside. Still, by the time they make it back to the hotel she's falling asleep on her feet, letting him guide her into the elevator with one hand against the small of her back, turning her face into his chest to shut her eyes.

Lydia kicks off her boots when they get inside the room, stumbles over to the bed and flings herself onto it face down. "Wake me up for dinner," she mumbles, and falls asleep before she can even get her jeans off.

*

She wakes up to moonlight spilling in through the open window. Lydia stretches and rolls over, glancing at the clock and noting that she slept for almost four hours. Stiles steps out of the bathroom, wearing dark slacks and a charcoal grey button up. 

"Hey," he says softly, climbing up on the bed and sprawling out next to her. "I was just about to wake you up."

She stretches, pointing her bare toes against his shins. "Thanks for letting me sleep."

"You needed it."

"Planning on wearing me out again?"

He kisses her lightly on the lips. "Definitely."

Lydia smirks and rolls over him to climb off the bed. She grabs her dress from her suitcase and changes in the bathroom, quickly curls her hair and fixes her pillow-smudged makeup. When she comes out Stiles is sitting on the edge of the bed, waiting for her, eyes widening as he takes her in.

"Hey, you look - wow."

She smooths her hands over the purple satin fabric of her dress, gesturing to him when he doesn't stand up. "Come on, I thought you were going to buy me dinner."

"Oh, I'm definitely planning on eating something," he says in a low voice that shoots straight to her core.

Lydia straps on her heels with shaking fingers. "I'm sure that can be arranged."

They go back down to the lobby but instead of heading outside Stiles tilts his head towards the bar. "Drink?"

They both have fake ID's, acquired in their second week of school by Stiles, made by a guy he met when he was doing his FBI internship. Stiles hops up on a stool before helping Lydia up next to him, orders two Kettle One and tonics with a flash of their imitation driver's licenses.

"Classy," Lydia murmurs, taking a sip when the bartender slides her drink over, loving that bite, the liquor crisp and cool as she swallows.

"Only the best for you," Stiles says cheekily.

They drink quickly and end up getting bombed right there at the bar. Two drinks turns into three and before Lydia knows it Stiles is asking the bartender to charge the drinks to their room and pulling her away, back towards the elevators.

"This dress is making me _crazy_ ," he mutters, pinning her against the wall and slapping at the elevator buttons.

"You were going to buy me dinner," she reprimands.

He pushes his thigh between her legs. "Are you complaining?"

Her head falls forward against his shoulder. "I suppose you can make it up to me."

The elevator arrives and they rush into it, Stiles smacks the button for the eleventh floor and Lydia presses her body against him, her skin flushed and warm against the cool satin fabric of her dress. They only have tonight and the morning before they both have to leave, Lydia on a bus back to Cambridge and Stiles taking the train to D.C.

They stumble to the room, it takes him two tries to get the door open. Lydia kicks her heels off and walks backwards towards the bed, watching Stiles unbuckle his belt as he follows her, a tremor of anticipation running through her body. She sits down on the edge of the bed, the hem of her dress riding up her thighs. Stiles sinks to his knees in front of her and Lydia spreads her legs, shocked again by the sight of it, Stiles Stilinski between her thighs, pressing a kiss to her knee like a preview of what's to come.

Out the window the moon has risen high in the sky, fat and full. Lydia leans back on her elbows to lay down on the bed, feeling Stiles slide her underwear down and off before wrapping his hands around her calves and propping her legs up on his shoulders. She still can't believe it sometimes, that this is her life now, that she's made it here, to eighteen, in a hotel room with a boy she loves more than she thought she was capable of and he loves her too, and for tonight it's just them - no werewolves, no blood, no running for their lives through the woods.

She knows in the morning it'll be different - they'll get breakfast together and Stiles will walk her to the bus station, holding hands until the bus comes and she has to board. She'll kiss him goodbye, whisper that she loves him in his ear because she'll never be able to say it enough. She'll cry silently behind her sunglasses as the bus takes her away before doing her reading for her Monday morning lecture. She'll go back to her little apartment in Cambridge and eat Thai takeout for dinner while FaceTiming with Scott and Malia to catch them up on her trip, fall asleep in her queen sized bed holding Stiles' GWU sweatshirt to her aching chest.

But right now she's alone with him and they're safe, the moon hanging in the sky like a miracle, oblivious to the death and destruction she influences, werewolves all over the globe helpless to her pull, hunters sharpening arrows and loading guns full of wolfsbane bullets. 

They can't save everyone, but they're trying. It feels impossible sometimes but they're still doing it, juggling college and relationships and saving the supernatural from those who want to eliminate their existence from the earth. It's easy to get despondent, overwhelmed, which is exactly what this weekend is for - an brief escape, a respite from the world.

"Hey," Stiles whispers, pressing his teeth very carefully against a tendon of the inside of her thigh. "You with me?"

Lydia shuts her eyes against the sensation of his lips kissing up the inside of her leg, reaching down to stroke his back as she nods, and surrenders.


End file.
